The illusion of the end
by InvisibleBlade
Summary: No one had expected Sherlock to die. No one could have possibly predicted it. Sherlock had been unbeatable in his eyes, an angel, a being so brilliant that he could overcome anything and anyone. Except angels can fly and Sherlock didn't fly. He fell to the ground, his wings dispersed mid-flight and when he hit the ground his skull spilt open with a sickening crack. Post fall fic
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just a warning. This is going to be pretty angsty. Look away now if you want what's left of your heart to stay in one piece.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters. I merely like to put them through pain and sorrow.**

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The world was grieving for Sherlock Holmes.

It was a duller and far more mundane place to live in without his existence.

Even the sky of London was a constant shade of heavy grey, like a gravestone hovering over the great city, a constant reminder that something or rather someone is missing and that someone isn't coming back.

No one had expected Sherlock to die. No one could have possibly predicted it.

Not John.

Sherlock had been unbeatable in his eyes, an angel, a being so brilliant that he could overcome anything and anyone.

Except angels can fly and Sherlock didn't fly. He fell to the ground, his wings dispersed mid-flight and when he hit the ground his skull spilt open with a sickening crack. His blood had seeped out around his ice cold corpse and his long limbs that had been used to run on dash sprints after criminals so often had been strewn out, bent into awkward angles. The detective wouldn't be running any more. Sherlock had crossed the finishing line but he wasn't a winner. He'd lost the battle. The final battle. The final problem.

That had been the moment that John realized that his friend was more human than he could have ever possibly imagined.

Sherlock was beaten. Sherlock was dead. He was bleeding. He'd committed suicide to cope with the pain of being known to the world as a 'fraud.'

John constantly wishes that he could rewrite time so that he could have reached Sherlock before he'd jumped. He would have screamed his belief in the man out loud if that would have stopped him from taking the fall.

But John can't rewrite time and Sherlock remains dead, and John remains breathing but barely alive. Inside he's dead and broken beyond any form of repair.

Whenever he looked down at his tanned skin he can still see the crimson red marking his fingertips. Because at the end of the day he killed Sherlock. It was his fault.

As he stands in front of his friends grave one thought flits through his mind.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

He never doubted him, not before his death, not during that heart breaking phone call, and especially not now that death had taken his friend from him.

He dreams of the day Sherlock can come home to him, the day that the pompous detective walks through the door like nothing has happened.

He knows that that day shall never come.

The dead remain dead.

That doesn't stop him dreaming.

* * *

Lestrade had been sitting behind his desk completing the dull task of filing paperwork when he received the phone call that would change his life forever. Oh if Sherlock could have seen him. He would have probably commented with his usual dead pan of "Boring." Ironically the paper work that he had had that night had been the result of the curly haired man.

Except Sherlock hadn't been there to comment on the mundane task. He had been far too busy ending his life.

Lestrade had cried for hours after the phone call, his hands still clutched the phone, his knuckles a deadly white, the heavy burden of the consulting detectives death crushing him.

The guilt that he felt in that moment still remains, just as strong as it ever was. It was his fault. He'd listened to Anderson and Donovan and he had been the one to try to arrest Sherlock, twice.

Sherlock was a good man, not a fake. The accusations were and had always been wrong. Lestrade supposed that's why Sherlock's death had hit him so hard. His death had been an awful waste. He was so young, too young to die, and Greg Lestrade had helped push him to the edge because of what? Because his job had been on the line, because he had a slight amount of doubt placed in his mind, because it was easier to blame Sherlock, because he was once again seeing and not observing.

He was an idiot.

Somewhere out there he can hear Sherlock's baritone laugh agreeing with his conclusion.

The truth was out now.

Sherlock's innocence was proven when the little girl that had screamed her lungs out upon the sight of him went through therapy and the whole story came tumbling out. She had been told that her brother and she would be killed upon sight if she didn't scream when the funny detective came to see her.

Of course the girl had screamed.

Whenever a particularly hard case come about now the D.I tilts his head up to the sky, heavy with rain. He waits till the rain drops spill from the clouds like a waterfall of tears, tears that he can't or won't shed himself, at least not in front of his team.

He thinks of Sherlock in those moments and clings onto a tiny shimmer of hope and thinks one foolish thing to himself.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes should have seen this coming, his baby brother's death.

In fact part of him always had. Sherlock was well known for his destructive behaviour when he couldn't deal with certain emotions.

Mycroft had always assumed that it would be drugs, or alcohol, or even a bullet to end his brother. He hadn't thought that in the end it would be himself that would bring around Sherlock's death, but it had been him.

The government official knows that betraying his brother was wrong, that he handed Moriarty the perfect ammunition to destroy Sherlock. And destroy Moriarty did.

It is anybody's guess to why Sherlock chose to end his life in such a way but Mycroft Holmes knows that once the world believed Sherlock was a fake his brother's pride would take a detrimental hit. Perhaps it had been too much for his brother to handle alone.

Alone.

Sherlock shouldn't have had to deal with any of this alone. He shouldn't have had to deal with anything.

Mycroft should have protected him, should have chosen his blood over his nation.

Mycroft Holmes had failed his baby brother and all for a computer code that he had been reliably informed didn't and hadn't existed.

He had not cried over his Sherlock's death. Mycroft Holmes despised crying and knew that Sherlock would have mocked him for acting on such ridiculous and sentimental feelings.

Instead he threw himself deeper into his work, spiralling down into a deep hole that he neither wanted or could climb out of, forgetting the diet, forgetting everything in fact.

Because if for one moment he remembered he just might do something awful and reckless, and Mycroft Holmes couldn't afford to be reckless, not with his job on the line.

Again his job came before his brother and he felt an emotion that he supposed was self- hatred and self-blame.

He glared out of his office window and hoped that this was one of his little brother's games, that he wasn't dead, that he was very much alive, that he had missed something and Sherlock wasn't truly dead, that maybe now that his innocence had been proven he would return. He'd give anything to bicker childishly with his brother once more.

"I believe in you, Sherlock. " He found himself muttering to himself idly one day. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Mrs Hudson had been beside herself when she had been told of Sherlock's death. It had been like losing a beloved son.

She still makes two cups of tea in the morning to bring up to 221B.

She misses the experiments, the vile smells that would constantly linger in the flat. She sometimes looks stays up at night, waiting for the sound of bullets hitting the wall in 221B, or the sound of sorrowful music floating through the air. Like a mother she waits for her son to return to her safe and sound.

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**Please leave a review to gain yourselves some more angst ;) **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A huge thanks goes to tearstainedashes and timeladyoftardis for leaving reviews. I did warn you that it was going to get quite angsty. Feel the wrath of a fan girl waiting for series 3. **

**DISCLAIMER: I love to hurt these characters, but unfortunately I have no ownership on them. Though I do love keeping Sherlock on a tight leash. **

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Sherlock looked upon the very small group of friends that he could rely on in the same way a child with no money looks upon a shop filled with sweets. He was trapped on the outside of a thick sheet of glass, watching them grieve and break, unable to reach out to them.

He had long acknowledged that he can never return to them. It wasn't safe. Right now his friends were like china. He didn't want to be the bull responsible for smashing them into smithereens. The only thing that is keeping him in London is the spider web that Jim Moriarty left behind. The web stemmed out from London and to ensure his friends safety he knew that no matter how painful it was he had to stay in London. He can't understand why they haven't given up on him yet – why they continue to believe despite the fact his name and reputation had been torn to shreds by the media. He studied them all. His focus mainly drifted John. John is everything he craves, wants, needs, and yet John is everything he can't have and that fact is painfully agonizing.

He witnesses John visiting what is in his best friends mind his grave. His eyes burn with unshed tears every time he watches this little ritual that John has made for himself. John's words cut through him like ice. He notes that every time John visits his grave he does the standard army salute. This, Sherlock decided, meant John not only saw him as a fellow comrade but as a commanding officer to, someone who he looked up to, and someone he'd follow absolutely anywhere. Something about that left a warm feeling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach that he just couldn't rid himself of. He supposed it was pride. He hadn't realized he'd meant quite so much to John, not until now, and he was proud to have been such a big part in John's life. He knew that he didn't deserve to feel such an emotion and he chided himself every time it cropped up within him. Why should he be able to feel so good about himself when in reality both he and John were suffering, John especially. He paid no mind to the anguish that had settled heavily in his heart.

One night he was gazing up at a sky that was as black as night, the only light pooling from the half crescent moon onto his angelic features. His hand was poised over a little leather-bound book, a fountain pen balanced delicately between his thumb and his middle finger. He smiled sadly up at the sky and sighed softly. "It's a wonderful night, isn't it?" He mumbled sarcastically. He blinked and slowly turned around, half hoping to see John standing there. His hopes were stamped out within a second and he sighed again, turning back to write in his little book.

_I miss him. I'm not quite sure how much of this I can endure. To be quite frank the only way I can describe by current state of living is that of a man exiled from his home. There is no turning back for me, not now. I didn't even get to say a proper goodbye. What a coward John must see me as, a dead coward who took the easy way out. Maybe I should just seek a path of death for real. That way I can at least live up to my reputation. – SH. _

The ex- detective slammed the book shut with a frustrated sigh, throwing the fountain pen across the room in a fit of rage. A war cry was at the very tip of his tongue as the ink flew everywhere, sinking into the floorboards of the abandoned house he's currently living in. He blinked and stared at the blue blemishes on the floor like they were blood stains from a particularly brutal murder. When he turned his gaze to his hands he almost sobbed. They were somehow covered in thick blue ink too. Normally small things like that wouldn't affect him but right now the sight of his stained hands just makes him want to scream. He had to literally bite down on his tongue to stop supress the strangled sound that wanted to escape his lips. He clawed his ink covered hands down his face, his fingers shaking as his pale features were covered in a dark liquid.

A lot of time passed by. To Sherlock it felt like both a million years and a fraction of a second had passed simultaneously. It's been a while since Sherlock has seen John visiting his grave. Perhaps that's that then, Sherlock thought rather bitterly to himself, John no longer believes in me. When he finally finds John it's in a park. He found himself studying John from the hidden safety of an oak tree. His eyes scanned him in their usual fashion, reminiscent of Sherlock's crime solving days. They learn, study, and store information into the impossibly large and throbbing room in his mind palace labelled 'John Watson'. Even from this distance he can tell that John is suffering from depression. Sherlock knew that it didn't take much for John to fall into a dark mood and it usually took an awful lot to pull him out of such black periods in his life. From the large bags underneath John's eyes he can tell that he hasn't been sleeping well, nightmares probably. He swallowed thickly. The nightmares were probably only worsened by his faked death. No, John's current nightmares were almost definatly his fault. John was such a sentimental fool. Sherlock felt his heart grow unbearably heavy and sad as he began to practically taste the loneliness and ridged anger spiralling off of John. John's psychosomatic limp was clearly playing up and the crappy coffee John had just brought from the cheap and untrustworthy coffee shop around the corner was shaking. No, Sherlock thought sadly. It's John's hand that's shaking, not the coffee. Sherlock felt himself being sucked into a black hole of guilt.

That night Sherlock watched as John managed to convince a woman to go on a date with him. She was pretty enough, Sherlock mused. And really he should be thrilled for John. Maybe he'd finally manage to have a successful date without him around to screw it all up. Deep down however Sherlock felt a hot stab in his chest, his fists clenching by his side as he tried his dam hardest not to walk into the restaurant and drag John away from the woman. John was supposed to be his. Ok, perhaps he should have made that clear whilst he'd had the chance. How he was feeling now was wrong and definatly more than a bit not ok. John was no longer his. Perhaps John hadn't been his at all. He took a deep breath and walked away from the restaurant as quickly as his legs would take him. That same night Sherlock curled into a tight ball on a mattress that smelt of piss, his far too thin and skeletal body shivering in the cold.

Most nights he found himself torn between dreaming about being reunited with John and dreaming about finally escaping the hell he was burning inside of. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was but something always stopped him from leaving the fire of his pain for the darkness that death offered. Perhaps it was because there would be no John on the other side. At least here John existed and Sherlock could watch him from a careful distance, wishing all the happiness in the world for his best friend. Lord knows he deserved it.

As John was moving on in his life Sherlock was stuck in the past, and he was falling further and further into an empty void of darkness and nothingness. His arms soon grew accustomed to the slice of a needle sinking into his veins. He often spent his days in a blissful high, where in his mind he lived with John again at 221B. Mrs Hudson would putter about, making tea whilst muttering "I'm not your house keeper." Lestrade came to him with cases that a toddler could solve, and his big nosed brother constantly butted into his life. All was as it was supposed to be in the small world he had created for himself. As happy as he could be whilst he was alone, struggling with a drug habit that seemed to have only worsened with his age, and whilst slowly killing Moriarty's men one by one. Killing people wasn't nearly as much fun as he'd imagined. It left him with a horrible fall out stomach feeling and that feeling only intensified when he was high. He knew that he was pathetic, living like a rat in the sewers. Just like a rat he was thin and riddled with disease. He was fairly sure that his thick and overgrown curls were riddled with knits. The mere thought is enough to make his skin crawl. But there's not much he can do. He can hardly go and buy supplies to rid himself of the lice at the risk of being recognized. Besides having head lice was the least of his problems.

He pushed his body to the limits ; not eating, sleeping, or washing regularly. His health didn't matter. As long as he was strong enough to watch John find happiness then he was healthy enough. As it turned out John was settling into a new life with the very woman Sherlock had seen him on a date with only a few months prior. Seeing John smile again was pleasant and Sherlock decided that although he hated the idea of John moving on from the life they used to share together he was rather pleased by the way his friend seemed a little less in pain, and less tired. The nightmares had stopped, or at least come to a standstill and although John was still limping and his hand still shookSherlock noted that both symptoms were fading. It would seem that this woman was working a world of magic upon John.

The dreams he used to have about reuniting with John began to smoulder in front of his eyes, like faded echo's blurring in his mind. He knew that any attempts of revealing himself now would be utterly futile. He couldn't risk ruining John's new life. He wasn't even going to attempt it.

He was in a taxi. Alone. The flickers of concrete from outside merged into a grey blot, reflecting Sherlock's slow mourning of John. It was a laughable thing, Sherlock contemplated. John wasn't the one that had supposedly died. There was no mourning needed and yet Sherlock was grieving like an old widow, longing for John to be by his side.

He pressed his face against the window, his eyes almost slipping shut. It's only when he catched a glimpse of something moving frantically behind the cab that he became fully alert, his eyes springing open in curiosity. His heart lurched in his chest at, the organ rattling unhealthily at the sight of John running. He studied John's face carefully, his far too quick pulse pounding in his ears. John's facial expression was caught between horror, bewilderment, and determination. His psychosomatic limp appears to have righted itself, for now at least. Sherlock's lips quivered sadly. Just like the old days. John's limp had disappeared from the moment he had started chasing after him, and now here he was pursuing him once more. A lump rose in Sherlock's throat. His faked death couldn't be revealed – not to John – not to anyone. It would put too many people in immediate danger.

He found himself wishing he was by John's side, hands entwined, fighting crimes and running after criminals just as they should have always been. Instead of running to John however he found himself running away, like a true coward. He ordered the cabbie to drive as fast and as far away as possible. He gained a narrow eyed, suspicious look from the cabbie but a quick promise of double the fair money persuaded the driver to shut up and follow his instructions. (Of course Sherlock barely had enough money to pay the normal fair price. What little money he did have would be spent on drugs at a later date. Sherlock didn't have any intention of telling the cabbie that however.)

John soon became a faded dot in the distance. If it were possible Sherlock felt more guilt pulling from inside of his chest. When the taxi cab came to a stop Sherlock threw an empty wallet at the cabbie and fled quickly and without saying a word. He soon found himself in a hot spot for heavy drug addicts and he rapidly blended into the crowd. At least he could rely on nobody recognizing him here. To the people around him he was nothing ; just a fellow junkie struggling with his own issues.

He reached inside of his great coat and plucked out all that he needed. It was only as the needle was pushing into arm that he noticed a face that he hadn't seen in a long time. Lestrade. He felt his blood run cold, and his heart was beating faster, not just because of the drug he'd just administered either. He was so close to getting caught. Who knew Greg would be on duty today of all days.

No, something in Sherlock's mind whispered. He's not on duty, look a little closer.

Sherlock peered carefully at the inspector and realized that yes, he was most certainly not on duty. He looked edgy and tired, and if Sherlock wasn't very much mistaken he looked desperate. And dear lord what on Earth was going on with that buzz cut? It made the man look twenty years older. On closer inspection Sherlock witnessed a rather brutish looking man passing over a small bag of white powder to Lestrade, in exchange for a large wad of money. Oh. And then it clicked. Lestrade was here for pleasure rather than business. He was buying drugs. He looked hungry for the white powder, his eyes wild and almost insane, buzzing with something Sherlock could identify far too well in himself. He pondered to himself what had pushed Greg to the path of drugs once more and he chewed on his lip. He sincerely hoped that it wasn't him. Everything was a little euphoric now, his head blissfully quiet, and so perhaps that's why he made the rather unwise decision of following Lestrade, watching him as he snorted the power. He didn't intervene. He wasn't quite sure what to do. So he just watched and studied, frowning occasionally, knowing that this whole picture was wrong on oh so many levels.

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**Lestrade just looked so desperate and on edge in the teaser for series 3. It got me thinking that maybe, just maybe he was purchasing drugs. After all it's implied that he's an ex- junkie in the show, just like Sherlock. Plus it leaves more opportunities to add angst to this fic. **

**I hope you're enjoying this fic so far. Please leave a review. They're always greatly appreciated. **

Please leave a review.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters. I simply like to play with them occasionally.**

**A/N: A huge thanks goes to everyone who has reviewed/Favorited/ followed so far. **

**Warning: This fic will not be a happy fic till the very end. So expect there to be some pretty dark themes. Oh and I will use swears from time to time. Just warning you.**

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It had been a tough few years for those who had known Sherlock ; at least for those who had known him well enough to know what was printed in the papers was all lies. Sherlock Holmes had not been a fake. The small amount of people who had cared for him had fallen right along with him ; some further than others. Greg was no exception. He'd known Sherlock for a long time, and although the man had irritated the hell out of him he'd been like family to Greg. A son. Greg had picked Sherlock up in one of his darkest moments as a young scrap of a thing and he'd helped raise him into a relatively healthy and good although completely untactful being. Finding out that the young boy he'd rescued had taken his life in such a horrific way had almost killed Greg. He'd managed to keep himself together with the help of Sherlock's brother but the choices he'd made whilst grieving over the detective had been careless and stupid. He'd become secretive in his ways. Not even Mycroft showed any signs of recognizing the traits of a man with a drug habit. It was surprising really as Mycroft seemed even better at deducing small details and squeezing whole stories from men by one quick glance than Sherlock had been. Mycroft was wrapped up in his own worries however. Greg knew that something was happening in the work place that was stressing out the older Holmes to no end. Just the other night the poor bugger had collapsed on the bed after promptly refusing the cake Greg had freshly made.

It was funny, Greg mused, how he was grieving after one Holmes while participating in a relationship with the other. Though Greg didn't really see it as a relationship. He saw it as it was ; a way for both men to deal with their pain. It was a bloody intimate and fucked up way of grieving but right now Greg just didn't care. He didn't have a job. He'd been fired on the spot after Sherlock's death. The blame had been pinned directly on him. He didn't have anything but the drugs, his pain, and Mycroft.

He sighed heavily; his shoulders slumped with the weight of the world as he snorted the white powder with expert ease, sighing in relief as he felt the steady burn in his nostrils. He sighed again as he felt the drug wash over him, followed by a sudden and welcomed wave of relief. He could feel his pupils slowly but surely dilating to form huge dark saucers. His temperature rose and he began to feel hot, but the warmth was a welcome change to the ice normally surrounding his heart. His heart. God, his heart. It was beating so fast now, working ten times harder than it would have usually done. His head, once filled with screaming and torturous self-hatred now felt beautifully empty. All of his pain in his sober moments was brushed away, as though it hadn't been there at all in the first place. He loved these highs. It would seem like they were the only moments he was as peace, where he could be happy, and forget about that dam detective that had driven him so far into this dark and dangerous path he was currently taking.

He froze when he felt a presence from close by. There was another set of breathing, shallow yet quick and panicked. He slowly turned around and was prepared to tell whoever it was to piss off. This was his spot and they should go and find one of their own. But as he did his drug glazed eyes swept over a ghost and the heart hammering in his chest began to pound so hard Greg was almost certain that it was going to burst.

_It can't be._

_It just can't be. _

_He's just an illusion._

_The dead stay dead. _

_I'm just hopelessly high. _

_Except I've never seen this ghost when I've been high before. I take the dam drugs to get away from him._

No matter how loud his thoughts were screaming at him he couldn't get away from the fact that Sherlock Holmes is staring at him with eyes black as night and features so pale and pasty that it was almost like he was shimmering, a glowing beacon of hope in the usual mists of desperation, loss, and grief. Greg swallowed thickly and took a step closer to the ghost but in return the ghost stepped backwards, torturing Greg, remaining just out of his reach.

"I'm sorry." He choked out, his voice so small it was barely audible. "Please, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't – I didn't know. I shouldn't have gone over to your flat with that warrant. I should have believed you!"

The spirit seemed to float towards Greg then, its lips twisted into something far darker than a smile. It was sinister and broken, and there was something practically murderous about it. And oh – long bony fingers were wrapping around his wrist. Greg just wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He didn't want this. He couldn't cope. Sherlock had no right to haunt him. He had no right at all. He's warm, Greg noted. That thought just made him sob and pull away from the figure. "What do you want from me?!" He snapped defensively. He felt anger grinding down on his very being, pulling at him in every which direction. Ghosts shouldn't feel warm. Sherlock wasn't warm. He was cold and dead, buried underneath miles and miles of dirt. "What do you want from me?!" He cried out, sending a fist in the direction of the detectives impostor. "Huh? Want me to kill myself? Follow you into the dark? Pay for not standing up for you when I had the chance?! Because I bloody will!" His hands dashed down to his waist belt and his fingers clasped his gun. This wasn't the first time he'd contemplated following Sherlock into the dark. His fingers had twitched for his gun more times than he can count. But this time the weapon was firmly held in his hand and he was aware of the butt of the gun now pressed firmly against his skull.

The silent figure's face seemed to drop but that expression only lasted for a split of a second. It was replaced by a cold and almost withering look. Greg sobbed as his finger began pulling back the trigger. Everybody dies. Everything comes to an end. And this was his end. He should have done this a long time ago.

He was completely startled when his world was suddenly caught in slow motion, his plan to end his life firmly wrenched from him. The Sherlock figure flew at him, grabbing the gun from his hands and throwing it away. It landed with an audible thud. After that Greg wasn't quite sure what happened. All he knew was that he was being pressed down on the ground by a very warm, and very solid consulting detective. He gently pressed his palm against the chest of the wild haired brunette's and he gasped sharply. There was a heartbeat there. A real, beating heart.

"Sherlock?" He questioned the man still hovering above him.

"Hello, inspector. I see you missed me." And there it was. The smug smile that Greg remembered so well was tugging against Sherlock's lips, and those eyes dilated with the use of drugs still held that absolutely irritating sparkle that Greg both loathed and missed.

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**So this is where you come in. I really need your help guys. This fic will eventually lead to the pairings being Johnlock and Mystrade. But I'm seriously considering having a little bit of hurt/comfort Sherstrade. What do you think? Please leave a review. **


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own.**

**A/N: I couldn't help myself. This idea just kept on nagging at me and I just had to get it written down. **

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Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Sherlock's sluggish mind was trying to tell him something. Usually Sherlock would have listened to his mind. But right now his head was blank and dull, and everything was hopelessly slow. He was aware of the sharp feel of stubble scratching against his chin as rough and warm lips worked against his. His bony fingers were digging into well-toned shoulders. They left small impressions there, dark crescent moons. His body was moving against another mans and hot breathy moans were pushing their way down his ears.

Wrong, his mind repeated itself.

His brow creased because what was wrong? What was his mind trying to tell him?

He pulled back to stare at the man he was pressed under and the frown on his pale features deepened because the man was not who he had wanted it to be. Lestrade with dark, drug riddled eyes pinning him down like a feline holding down its prey right before it was going to kill it was not what he had expected to see. Sherlock felt those eyes devouring him whole. The sensation wasn't an entirely nice one. It made him feel weak and small, and slightly nervous about what was happening.

"You're back." The whisper was so broken it cut through Sherlock like barbed wire slicing through his skin.

"That I am." He replied, resting his head on Lestrade's shoulder.

Now he knew what his mind had meant. He knew what was wrong. He didn't want Lestrade at. Not like this. He wanted to have his world, his everything, the one man that could make him feel. But his world was gone. His world had moved on to someone else. His everything no longer rotated around him. So he'd settled for second best; a warm body that could make him feel human at the very least.

Maybe that's what he was missing in his life. Maybe all he needed was a little humanity because without it he was just a machine. How ironic. John had called him a machine. John was always so very right about everything. Well – almost everything.

What John had been wrong about was in mistaking Sherlock's cold exterior for a lack of caring. Perhaps Sherlock's problem was that he had far too much heart. Everyone he knew wanted a piece of his heart. He'd been taken advantage of in his past. People had torn pieces of his heart out and he'd gladly stolen those pieces back from them, stitching them back together albeit sloppily. That's why his heart was so back to front. It was ugly, damaged, pieced back together poorly. Sherlock's iciness was not an act of not caring. It was a way for him to hide behind an orb of solid protectiveness. It hid his loneliness and how truly broken and useless he was.

Over the past three years that orb had only grown because really when he'd given up his everything his loneliness had tripled into an almost crippling intensity, and never had he felt so dirty, wrong, and destroyed. Without his world he was unstable, floating further and further away into an inescapable hell.

"I missed you."

Sherlock snorted at those words. They rang out like an echo that wouldn't stop bouncing from one wall in his mind palace to another. It wasn't that he wasn't glad that he'd been missed, it wasn't even the fact that it was Lestrade saying those words, it was more so that he wished for those softly spoken words to be leaving a certain ex-army doctor's lips.

Suddenly everything stopped and two large hands were cupping his face, wiping away tears that he hadn't even realized had started falling down his cheekbones. "Where've ya been, Sher?"

"It doesn't matter. I've just been …trying to forget."

He closed his eyes and shook his head because forgetting John Watson was an impossible feat. John occupied such a large space in Sherlock's life, mind, and twisted heart that removing him completely would leave Sherlock as a washed up shipwreck on a jagged shoreline. In other words he would become even more broken and he wouldn't even remember why. No. John was definitely something that he could never bring himself to erase from his mind palace.

"Trying to forget what?"

"The most important moment in my life thus far." Sherlock replied, his voice quiet and almost childlike with the tones of vulnerability contained within it.

"And that is?"

Sherlock still had his eyes closed but he could still picture the slight up rise of Lestrade's eyebrows. This made him smile slightly. People were so adorably predictable.

" The day that fate handed me John Watson and all the fantastic days that followed."

Yes. That day was single handily the most significant thing that had ever happened to Sherlock. Meeting someone like John had quite taken Sherlock by surprise because no one had ever truly accepted him for whom and what he was before. Sherlock loved surprised dearly. John had changed the rules of the game. Sherlock loved the smell of danger and the flow of adrenaline coursing through his veins and John of course followed suit, latching on to his hand and running right alongside him.

"Oh."

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes, the washed-out remnant of that brief nostalgic moment fading away into nothing. "I'm sorry. Were you expecting a different answer?"

Lestrade shook his head and pecked Sherlock on the lips. The detective was too strung out to care enough to stop him. "No. I just didn't know you were a couple. I mean – I heard the rumours. There was even a betting pool at the yard."

"We – we weren't a couple." Sherlock admitted softly. "Not in the way everyone assumed we were."

"But you wish that you had been?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded. He knew that it was one of the most dangerous things in the world to think about the what if's and all that never was, but could have been. Then again Sherlock thrived on danger and this wasn't the first time he'd asked himself 'what if John and I had entered a relationship together?'

It was strange that before the ' fall' Sherlock had barely thought about being in a relationship let alone in a relationship with John. The mere idea of being intimate with someone, of them knowing every single little kink and knot in your personality, of inevitably lining yourself up for heartbreak, it was a foreign and dull concept to Sherlock. But now, right this second, he'd give anything to say that John was all his. He'd spill every dark secret within himself to John just to be with him again. And there was no need to worry about heart break. Sherlock was already miserably heartbroken.

When rough lips began coaxing him out of his reverie he blinked, surprised to see that his eyes were now home to a batch of unshed tears. "Shhh. It'll be ok. I'll make you feel better."

Sherlock heard a choked sob float past him. He realized to his shock horror that not only was he crying but he was also sobbing like a small child. Greg's arms were clutching him and pulling him close, cradling him protectively. Sherlock sniffled and tried his hardest not to comment on how badly Lestrade smelt of his brother's overly expensive aftershave. The comment came off of his lips anyway.

"You're sleeping with my brother."

"Yes. So?" The reply was blunt but the blush now flooding across the older man's face was far more telling.

" You've been taking drugs." Sherlock said, his tone obvious and taunting.

"So have you." Lestrade grunted in reply.

"You've lost your job."

"You're dead."

Sherlock chuckled. It was a dark and stoic sound. "Touché." He muttered.

Lestrade wriggled his hips slightly and Sherlock gasped at the sudden and unexpected sensation burning through him as their erections collided against each other. "What was that you said about making me feel better?" He asked quietly.

Lestrade smiled softly at him. "Only if you really want to."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, his thick eyebrows bunching together as he contemplated what he was being offered. Lestrade may not be his everything but being with Lestrade like this was so much better than having nothing at all. So Sherlock nodded his consent and allowed himself to feel safe and loved for the first time in a very long time.

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**Please leave a review. Reviews are greatly appreciated. **


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER : I do not own**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has showed interest in this story so far. Hello any new comers. I hope you enjoy. **

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When Sherlock awoke it took him almost two fractions of a second to realize that he was in a warm, soft bed for the first time in months. It took him significantly longer to figure out why he was pressed against another man's body, and even longer to try and decipher just who that body was. His head was throbbing painfully and everything seemed far too bright, which was probably the reason his brain was working to its full capacity. He supposed he had nothing but the drugs to blame for that. His was body was aching for its next fix of cocaine. Once he had pieced things together however he felt a trickle of guilt stir in his stomach. It wasn't the man who he wanted to wake up beside and he almost felt like he had just committed an act of betrayal to both himself and the man who he was longing after.

He frowned as a soft kiss was placed on his neck by the man laid out beside him. "If you don't mind, Lestrade. I'd quite appreciate it if you'd stop that at once."

The older man's face instantly fell, a clear amount of pain slowly dripping across his features. A moment later and the look of pain was replaced by a look of pure shock. "Wait…you're alive? You're not just …an illusion?"

Sherlock's frown deepened and he went to say something but found himself interrupted by a sharp, familiar voice. "It would appear so."

Sherlock shifted in the bed and let his eyes flicker to the owner of the voice. "Hello, big brother." He said, his mouth suddenly painfully dry. There standing at the bottom of the bed, looking as pristine and composed as ever, was Mycroft. Though his straight posture and facial expression gave the impression that he felt nothing, Sherlock knew otherwise.

He knew his brother better than anyone in the world. He could note the tension coming off of Mycroft in giant waves. It was practically nauseating. The tight smile his brother was possessing told him that his he was feeling bothered, angry, maybe even a little worried. Sherlock noted how distressed and anxious Lestrade seemed to be and sighed loudly. It was plain as day ; Sherlock had just slept with his brother's lover. He'd been far too high to note it or if he had he hadn't taken much notice of it seeing as the room stank of stale sex and sweat.

Mycroft cocked his head, observing Sherlock in an almost cat like manner. "I always had my suspicions…" The Elder Holmes then did something that the younger couldn't have possibly predicted. He strode to the bed and pulled Sherlock into a big brotherly hug. The hug didn't last long but it was a large step for either brother to have taken, especially since Sherlock hugged Mycroft back. The gesture was a shock to both of their systems and so it was hardly surprising that when they pulled back they reverted into their old selves.

Mycroft went back into being an ice man, glaring at Lestrade with piercing eyes that made the man shrink back into the covers. Sherlock simply blinked, his throbbing headache doubling in intensity as he tried to process all that was happening.

"I think you should leave, Gregory." From Mycroft's tone of voice that wasn't a suggestion it was a cold and point blank order. Sherlock watched as Lestrade gathered up his clothes and scarpered from the room like a frightened animal. That just left him and his brother alone, having an itense stare off with each other. "Have you any idea of how much trouble you've caused?" The Elder Holmes sniffed and readjusted one of his cuffs out of habit.

Sherlock didn't even bother thinking of a response. He knew exactly how much trouble he'd caused. He'd been forced to watch as those he knew were one by one destroyed by his fake suicide.

"Well?" Mycroft asked, raising a stern eyebrow. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders slightly. The searing pain in his head was unbearable now. The only thing he was aware of was the pounding in his head and the way the room was beginning to spin despite the fact the only thing he was doing was lying in bed. He quickly found himself wretching all over the soft sheets, the very little content in his stomach resurfacing. His brother looked quite appalled at this and Sherlock would have smirked victoriously if it had not been for his body convulsing with each strained wretch.

"Those were Egyptian sheets. Pure silk." Mycroft stated, his lips tightening and a frown pulling at his brow. Sherlock groaned in response and his older brother sighed and rolled his eyes. "You look awful."

Sherlock groaned again as his stomach gave the last of its contents and he sank back into the mattress. "Thank you, dearest brother, for pointing out the blatantly obvious."

Mycroft shuffled closer to Sherlock, wrinkling his nose at the smell wafting off of his brother. "I see you've taken a dangerous path once more." He said as he reached out to one of Sherlock's arms, his fingertips floating gracefully over the needle marks and the other scars that told of all the hardships he had been through.

Sherlock flinched away, dragging both of his arms to his chest protectively. "So has your lover it would seem!"

That seemed to hit a nerve as for the briefest moment the Elder Holmes face broke into something akin to despair. "I will talk to Gregory later." He said softly. If those words had come from anyone else then Sherlock would have most certainly put them down as being fond. But this was his brother. Mycroft Holmes didn't do fond. Though it would seem perhaps he did. He'd dropped to his knees and was holding Sherlock's head in his hands with a gentle tenderness. The kindness in his brothers eyes made him shiver. It scared him when people cared. It was like a cold fear gripping at his heart, threatening to shatter it, because if people cared about him then they'd only get hurt. Though Sherlock detested his brother and everything he stood for he never wanted to see him hurt.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked. He'd expected his brother to say a lot of things but those two words were the rarest things he'd ever heard Mycroft say. "W- w-what?" He stammered, swallowing thickly around a lump of emotion rising in his throat. He tried to fight the urge to cry because he didn't want to appear weak. Holmes men did not shed tears.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft repeated in a soft voice. "I'm sorry that I betrayed you, sorry that you felt like you couldn't come to me when you found yourself in this –difficult situation, but most of all I'm sorry that you had to give up John. I know how much the good doctor meant to you."

Sherlock's chest tightened and those tears grew more insistent. He wasn't going to cry in front of his brother though. He wasn't prepared to show him just how weak he'd gotten in the past few years, and to show that his usual distance with his emotions was no longer there. He was now as emotional as a teenage girl. Stupid, pointless, little things tended to stir such painful feelings within him that he wanted nothing more than to rip his beating heart from its cage so that he could once more revert back into a cold, uncaring machine.

His brother's face flickered from a heavy sadness into its usual composed mask, though the pity that swirled in his eyes remained. "I'll clean you up and leave you be for a while. But let this be known that I'm not allowing you to leave this building till you are clean and in good health." His brother held up a hand to Sherlock as he went to say something. "I will ensure that Gregory gets some help too. Whatever – happened last night – it's forgotten. I'm just so very glad he brought you home to me."

Sherlock grunted in reply and nodded, a little bit of pressure loosening within his chest. He watched in fascination as Mycroft himself began to strip the soiled sheets and his clothes. He'd expected his brother to get his staff to do this but instead he was treated like Mycroft had treated him when he'd been a young boy. Each touch was gentle and caring and Sherlock wanted nothing more to be a child again because then he'd have an excuse to curl up on his brother's lap and sob without any questions asked. And really that's all he wanted to do right now and it was frustrating because he wasn't prepared to sink to such a low level and ask his brother to stay with him. Luckily he found that he didn't have to. Once Mycroft had placed him in some clean albeit too big pyjamas he looked at him with soft eyes, a sort of understanding twinkling in his eyes, and then a surprisingly gentle smile tugged at his lips. Then silently, because there was really no need for words right now, he crawled beneath the covers and pulled Sherlock's scrawny body onto his lap, his arms wrapping protectively around him.

Sherlock couldn't find the strength to hold in his tears anymore. It was almost instinctive to begin crying whilst his brother was rocking him in his arms like a small toddler. It wasn't the silent sort of crying; that would have probably been a whole lot less embarrassing for both men. Instead it was the sort of crying that turns into gigantic sobs that stick in your throat as loud hiccups minutes after they've died down. His sobs were loud and strangled, and the more he sobbed the more his emotional walls crumbled, and in a vicious circle the more walls that crumbled the more sobs that formed.

His brother was hushing him all the while, rocking him, holding him tightly. Mycroft's warmth held some comfort for Sherlock and soon the soothing words his brother was whispering down his ear began to calm him. When he finally looked up at his brother he noticed the silent tears slipping down the Elder Holmes face. It would seem that both men were rather emotionally unstable right now but somehow that didn't matter, all that mattered was that Sherlock was home, and for the first time in years Sherlock and Mycroft were no longer arch enemies, they were brothers.

"Welcome home, little brother."

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**I hope that I didn't make the Holmes boys a little too soppy, but I do love Holmes boys feels so sorry if I indulged a little too much there. **

**Please leave a review. Reviews are always greatly appreciated. **


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